Ring of Fire

           Flying out of Seattle
           we come so close to Rainier--
           floating above the mists--
           we seem to touch it with our wings.
           Below--icy folds of glaciers,
           long lozenges of avalanche falls,
           ahead--smoke from Mt. St. Helen's,
           then its crushed, barren summit.
           I imagine the explosion
           --plumes of steam,
           fiery rivers of lava,
           and finally the ash storm that darkened
           the sun for months.
           Once,
           long ago
           I flew over this mountain,
           looked down to see
           footsteps of climbers
           in snow at the top.

           At sunset,
           Mt. Shasta, Three Sisters, Mt. Jefferson,
           line up one by one
           like monks meditating
           above the field of clouds.
           I watch until the red glow
           dies along the horizon.
           Stars appear,
           Arcturis, Vega, the Big Dipper,
           and out of the calm, starlit night
           I hear again the voice of a TV scientist.
           Stars sputter, galaxies collide,
           there are icy winds at supersonic speeds,
           and asteroids on a murderous path.
           But here,
           tucked into Earth's belly,
           the airplane
           hums sturdily--
           a green blip on the radar screen.
           I accept the orderly seeming stars,
           refuse to remember
           the small shift
           that can at any moment
           smash
           earth, sky, mountain, plane. 


           Marilyn Zuckerman  (Click for bio.)


      


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